


Loving you is the perfect suicide

by Lyrae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Dammit Jim, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Horcruxes, Implied/Referenced Underage, Jim Has Issues, Jim is a Little Shit, Kid Jim, Kid Jim Moriarty, M/M, Master of Death (Harry Potter), One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Possessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Sherlock Being Sherlock, Suicide, The Deathly Hallows, Tom Riddle's Diary, Underage Kissing, Wrong Boy-Who-Lived (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25607833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae/pseuds/Lyrae
Summary: It was always meant to end this way, wasn't it?...In which Sherlock isn't the chosen one, Lord Voldemort is entranced by a young boy with dark eyes and Jim makes the world dance.
Relationships: Jim Moriarty/Tom Riddle, Jim Moriarty/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Loving you is the perfect suicide

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Conscripto2020 on amino, the theme was "the end", and since the maximum you could write was 10000, I feel like I had to rush through some plot points I would have liked to explain more.

It was the end. 

Strangely enough, Sherlock knew that fact with utmost clarity, they didn't need a strenuous battle, didn't need a violent confrontation with screams and tears, whatever they had now was enough. 

Blood started forming a pool around dark hair, crimson crown contrasting with deathly pale skin and black eyes, stars reflecting in the bottomless pits. 

There was a beat, two, during which he somehow managed to finally stand up with trembling hands and fluttering heart, suddenly needing to put distance between him and the cooling flesh. 

It was the end, of course it was, but that didn't mean everything was quite over, not yet, not now. 

Sherlock moved away, practically glided towards the windowless openings of the astronomy tower with blood coating his hands and his robes, watching as Voldemort kneeled next to the body. 

It would have been quite a sight to see if the cadaver wasn't who it was, the Dark Lord cradling the dead man, caressing bloodied strands of hair, his elegant face blank even if the tremor in his left hand was so very telling. 

He couldn't help but think that Jim had been right when he had told him that Tom Marvolo Riddle was too pretty to be a monster, that someone as gorgeous had no right to be so openly nightmarish, that the Irish imp had been truthful when he had whispered in his ears that he found the Dark Lord almost as beautiful as Sherlock and that if it wasn't for his vibrantly clear eyes, there really wouldn't be anything to distinguish them. 

Still, Jim had killed himself, abandoned the complexity of magic for the ease of a gun, put the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. 

Still, Jim was gone, blood and gray matter staining ancient stones, his smiling face challenging the gods themselves, challenging fate, challenging _death_. 

Lord Voldemort stood up, his diaphanous fingers now immobile, grasping the cold wood of his wand. 

"It was meant to come to this, wasn't it? It was always supposed to be you and me, Sherlock Holmes. "

He raised his hand, pointing the weapon at the younger man. 

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘯-𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

"No, it was always supposed to be Jim and me." 

𝘑𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬, 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯, 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳

Sherlock wasn't sure how many times they had shared vows of forever in that tower where they stood now, where they had cut their fingers and then laughed at the stupidity of mixing their bloods to make a pact when magic existed to ensure they held their end of the bargain, but maybe these promises hadn't been what had really mattered. 

The truth was, it was always meant to be the two of them against the rest of the world, against Dumbledore and Voldemort alike. 

The old man was long dead but the latter was still alive to breathe, alive to laugh, and laugh he did, high-pitched and manic, chuckles tumbling out his thin lips like curses, drifting in the cold air. 

Sherlock was half convinced he could hear the sound of the battle still on-going, of the wizards fighting and dying, but everything was drowned by Voldemort's agonised amusement. 

"James Moriarty was never very interested in being alive. " 

𝘌𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩e 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥.

It was a simple fact, one that Sherlock already knew, so he stayed silent, didn't grasp his wand, didn't raise his voice, he just listened. 

"So what did his vows mean in the end? "

A cold, amused voice, echoed in his mind and in the air, honeyed whisper coating the muzzle of the gun. 

_"Everything. "_

\-------------

James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes met in 1991, in the Hogwarts express. 

Sherlock had been looking for an empty compartment where he would be left alone for the duration of the train ride, unbothered by the children calling themselves his greatest fans. 

One would think that people would have forgotten about him, or at least realised their thoughts of him having killed the Dark Lord as a toddler were simply delusional, but apparently that was asking too much, so Sherlock Holmes was now the boy who lived only to get swallowed by boredom and crowds of annoying people. 

In the end, he had seen that one boy sitting alone in a compartment, quietly reading, and he had decided that would be the best he would find, that one lone kid was better than a group and that surely it wouldn't be that bad. 

It wasn't. 

The other boy barely glanced at him from behind the thick cover of his book before returning to his reading, mumbling something that might have been a 'hi' before seemingly forgetting about Sherlock's presence. 

𝘖𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘯, said his messy hair and deathly pale complexion, 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘳, screamed his too small shoes and his ill-fitting clothes, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧, clamored the brand new, expensive book he was currently holding close to his chest and his mismatched possessions. 

𝘔𝘦, whispered his abyssal eyes, bottomless pits seemingly sucking in all the light of the room, and somehow, the darkness was the only thing Sherlock truly saw. 

_Death, murmured the strange scar half hidden beneath messy hair, murmured everything that impossibly seemed to make the other, murmured the whistling of the train and the blurry landscapes._

"You're reading a third year book. " Sherlock idly noticed, the boy immediately looking up, apparently perfectly relaxed if one didn't notice the way his fingers curled possessively on the embroidered cover. 

"It's just mathematics, it might be called Arithmancy here but it's the exact same thing, and since we don't have classes about it before third year, I decided to continue studying on my own. " 

The answer was smooth, every word weighed and carefully chosen before falling off the other's lips. 

It was also a lot longer than what Sherlock though he would get for his unpromted statement, not that he was about to complain, but he had thought the boy would either ignore him or shut him down immediately. 

"You like mathematics then I take it? "

A raised eyebrow and a pointed look at the book, empty question, empty answer. 

Still, Sherlock wasn't sure why, but the amusement glinting in the other's eyes was enough to keep him interested, the sheer intelligence shining beneath the dark lashes, like he was seeing everything there was to see and more-

_like he read Sherlock as much as Sherlock read him._

There was a low hum for a few seconds, soft and pensive, before the boy ultimately held out his hand. 

"James Moriarty, hi~" he sing sang playfully, the consonants rolling off his tongue in a way that screamed 𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩, and James -𝘑𝘪𝘮, 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧- might as well have been a siren for the way his voice enthralled Sherlock. 

Of course, he had heard it before when he had answered his question, but there was something more this time, amusement, mischief, and barely concealed anticipation. 

Sherlock's fingers closed over Jim's and it felt like he was breathing for the first time, like oxygen was filling his lungs, too little, too much, and he barely stopped the gasp that threatened to pass through his lips. 

It felt 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

"Sherlock Holmes, pleasure. " he somehow managed to answer, and the axis shifted again. 

They stayed silent after this, observed each other, peered over their books and spend most of the train ride with kaleidoscope eyes lost in pitch black ones, dark gaze focused on impossible colours, more being shared that way than if they had spoken. 

Once they got out the train, they practically fell into the same boat, and only Hogwarts' appearance made them look away. 

  
  


\-------------

Sherlock had heard before that one might influence the sorting hat's choice if it was hesitating between two houses, but he had never thought it could be completely fooled like that. 

"Ravenclaw! " it bellowed after spending nearly ten minutes on James Moriarty's head, and Sherlock didn't even try to hide his disbelief even as the boy put down the hat and sauntered to sit face to face with him.

This was simply ridiculous. 

Sherlock had known him for a few hours, barely spoken to him, but he could already see the cunning, the ambition, the thirst for knowledge, yes, one that made him so similar to the other, but mainly to gain more power… 

Jim was the epitome of a Slytherin, yet he had followed him in Ravenclaw. 

Sherlock wouldn't lie and said he wasn't happy about it, the simple thought of spending only a few classes with the other had been more than frustrating. 

"How did you do it? " he asked years later as they were both sprawled across a leather sofa in the Requirements Room, their limbs tangling and interwining. 

Jim laughed, he often laughed when Sherlock asked questions that had no answers, he laughed, his body shuddering with mirth, before shaking his head. 

"I convinced it. "

"The sorting hat shouldn't even have hesitated for a very long time, you're obviously a Slytherin. "

Once again, amusement filled the dark eyes. 

"A mudblood in Slytherin? I would have been torn apart. "

Well, he wasn't completely wrong, but still-

"It would have insisted on it though, its job is to protect the students but there wasn't any real, immediate, threat, unless… "

Jim made a small gesture, sliced his throat with his thumb and grinned widely. 

"Unless you threatened to kill yourself, but that wouldn't have worked, the hat is in your mind, it 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 when you're bluffing."

They hadn't mastered occlumency at this point, at least not well enough to lie to that old piece of cloth, so 𝘩𝘰𝘸-

"The trick is to mean it. "

The dark eyes burned and Sherlock felt the inferno graze his skin before it suddenly disappeared, abyssal holes swallowing the light, and he didn't doubt for one second that Jim would have jumped from the highest tower or swallowed water in the deepest depths of the lake had the hat gone against his wishes. 

  
  


\------------

The four houses tended to deal with the issue of the dormitories differently, everyone with friends in another house could tell you that, but it still didn't seem to be common knowledge. 

Slytherins all slept alone, you couldn't trust anyone after all, even the other snakes might stab you in the back since presenting an united front was only a thing out of the common room, and no one wanted to be careful even as they slept. 

Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had a pretty similar operation but where the formers were still separated into different years, the latters' dormitories were all interconnected so as to help everyone go along. 

Ravenclaws though… 

Ravenclaws didn't particularly care for unity, you worked for yourself and that was it, but Rowena had known it was sometimes easier to study with another person, and even if affinities had to play a role at some point, the dormitories reflected that : there were two students per room, two students chosen because their behaviours went well with each other, because they 𝘧𝘪𝘵.

Of course, that didn't always mean the students ended up friends, just that they pushed each other to be the best version of themselves. 

Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty ended up sharing a room. 

It wasn't that surprising when one knew how they had seemingly communicated without speaking merely a few minutes after meeting for the first time, people might be blind, teachers might take a few weeks to notice, but the magic in charge of putting each child with its partner simply comprehended their impossible similarities, and it acted. 

"We're together" Sherlock remarked idly when he noticed the names etched on their door, Jim already opening it and entering before the words completely left his mouth. 

After a second of observing the room, with its blue poster beds and its small desks, Jim turned to face him, grinning slightly 

"Things could be worse I guess. "

Sherlock couldn't help but agree. 

\------------

After that, everything followed its course sluggishly, they had their first classes, somehow managed to astound every teacher they met, and tried to interact with other students as little as possible. 

Considering his status as the boy-who-lived -Jim laughed himself silly when he learned that name, to his roommate's annoyance - Sherlock had a bit more troubles doing so, people still thinking it was okay to seek him out and ask him how he had defeated the dark Lord. 

It wasn't even like he had really done anything anyway, or like it had really been Voldemort. 

His brother had insisted that it had been just a Death Eater and that he had been turned to ash by the wards once he had tried to attack Sherlock, no killing curse involved, but everyone seemed to believe that a eight years old child couldn't have remembered everything right and that the trauma must have affected him… 

As if Mycroft Holmes could be affected by something like trauma or shock. 

Since his brother had actually been there, Sherlock tended to trust his memories more than he did Dumbledore's weird rambling and too blue eyes, but that didn't stop everyone else from hailing him as a hero after Voldemort disappeared the exact same Halloween night. 

_Correlation did not always equal causation though._

In the end no one really knew what had happened that night, yet Sherlock now had to deal with a fan club, to Jim's continuous amusement. 

They went along well at least, he wasn't sure what he would have done had the other boy not been there, had he been stuck in a room with an idiot, in a castle full of goldfishs… 

He did pity Mycroft sometimes, but the older hadn't been crowded for something he couldn't remember doing -or hadn't done- and as a Slytherin he had been able to sleep quietly. 

Still, pity or not, that didn't change the fact that he had Jim when his brother had not, he had someone to talk to, someone that liked discussing more than their overly simple classes, someone that slept as little as he did and yet studied quietly once he was awake, someone that completed him and made him feel 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦-

That didn't change the fact that he had a friend. 

  
  


\------------

  
  


For Christmas, Sherlock received an invisibility cloak. 

Of course, it wasn't the only thing he got, his parents had sent books, his brother a few rare potions ingredients, and even Jim had gifted him something, a blue, silk scarf, with warmth and protection runes embroidered in the soft fabric-

No, not runes, 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴, equations infused with magic, filled with power until the thread shone dimly in pitch-black darkness. 

_Sherlock hadn't thought of giving the other anything, it wasn't like he ever gave anything to anyone for Christmas, but he had felt… well, he had felt strangely bad once he had seen the package near his bed._

_Jim was good at snatching whatever he wanted, so stealing a few galleons and buying the scarf mustn't have been too hard, but the actual needlework involved was so precise, so detailed, that it must have taken hours to complete, even if he assumed the equations needed had simply spawned into his mind._

So no, receiving something hadn't been that surprising, but the object in itself, the unsigned note accompanying it, the words laid out on the parchment? 

_This was given to me by one of my dearest friends before their death, and I believe that he would have preferred to see his cherished cloak in your hands rather than on one of my shelves. I trust that you will use this well._

"Dumbledore. " Jim remarked idly, his eyes focused on the shimmery fabric. 

It wasn't signed but the handwriting told more than a name ever would. 

Sherlock nodded, more interested by what he could see on the note than by the present. 

"Yes, and he's lying. "

The shape of the letters, the way the quill had stopped and started again-

The old man either didn't think Sherlock would use that cloak well, or his '𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥' hadn't, in fact, given it to him. 

Still, in the end it didn't really matter, did it? 

He didn't want it, he had no use for it. 

"Here. " Sherlock took the cloak out of the package, his fingers lingering on the cloth, on that tear into reality's fabric, before delicately putting it around Jim's shoulders "Merry Christmas. "

For a second, there was something dark, infinitely dark, surrounding them, lovingly embracing the smaller child wearing a mantle of cosmos, a cape of infinity.

Its bony fingers closed around his throat, featherlight murder, imperceptible death, and then it was gone. 

"For me? " Jim asked, with wide, hopeful eyes, and Sherlock tried to ignore the lack of packages near the other's bed, smiled and confirmed his offering, his faith. 

"Yes. "

_Always._

\------------

  
  


The end of the year came quickly enough, Jim now disappearing for a few hours in the middle of the night before showing up again, grinning like a loon. 

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what he did, sometimes the creases of his robe spoke of the astronomy tower, of cold and infinite cosmos, sometimes the scent in his hair spoke of the library, of old parchment and ancient leather. 

Sometimes, it wasn't something he could quite pinpoint, the darkness in his eyes, the skip in his steps, the shudder in his fingers, and in these cases he never managed to stop himself, and he asked. 

"Where were you? " was the soft question, and Jim immediately grinned. 

"I found a mirror hidden in the castle, it shows your deepest desire… that was pretty informative. "

Sherlock simply arched an eyebrow. 

"Was it? "

_He already knew what he desired, or rather who, did Jim yearn for something else?_

"No it wasn't, that's why I left, if I wanted to see you I would have stayed there. " the other chuckled, and things were right once more. 

This was the first time Sherlock asked Jim where he had gone, and the second only happened right at the end of their first year. 

"Where were you? " he had asked again, and Jim had somehow grinned even more. 

"I stole the philosopher stone and gave it to Lord Voldemort. "

Sherlock hummed. 

They had known about the stone, of course they had, with all of the hints left by Dumbledore and his cronies, they would have needed to be blind and deaf to miss that fact. 

'𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱. ' Jim had said, and Sherlock had smoothly agreed even though he didn't know who that trap was for. 

"What did you get in exchange? " he asked, simply because James Moriarty never did anything if it didn't further his goals. 

Very Slytherin of him, the sorting hat would have been mad if he knew. 

The others' grin smile somehow widened, practically slicing his face in half. 

"𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨." He breathed out, elated, and Sherlock understood. 

Voldemort must have offered power, a place at the feet of his throne, even a title perhaps, but Jim hadn't cared, Jim hadn't cared because he had thrown the line with its pretty ruby bait and the biggest, most dangerous fish had taken it. 

Still, the Dark Lord was older than them and more powerful, a genius, like they were, but with so much more experience… 

As if that would matter with James Moriarty. 

He didn't know why, but Sherlock pitied Lors Voldemort for a second. 

\-----------

Of course, Albus Dumbledore wasn't happy about the stone's disappearance, or Quirrell's for that matter, but in the end he couldn't do much and both Jim and Voldemort had covered their tracks well. 

Maybe he knew, maybe he didn't, Sherlock had noticed the old man's too blue eyes focusing on Jim, narrow and piercing, but he had already been scrutinizing him before… 

No, Dumbledore didn't say anything to them directly, but Mycroft did. 

He wasn't that surprised that his brother somehow knew about the stone, he had already joined the Unspeakables while he was still in school after all, nor was he surprised that the older had managed to piece the whole thing together with minimal information, but what did seem strange was Mycroft's absolute hatred for Jim. 

Oh, sure, Mycroft Holmes was cold - 𝘪𝘤𝘺 - to everyone, James Moriarty had no reason to be treated any differently even if he was Sherlock's only friend, but there was always something in his voice, in his eyes, almost imperceptible yet still present, pure unadulterated loathing. 

Was it because of Jim's new associate ? 

_It wasn't, the Holmes had been neutral for generations, even after the Death Eater's attack, Mycroft neither hated nor liked the dark side._

Or because of his blood status? 

_Mycroft had never judged anyone on their birth, only their skills and the way they used them._

No, of course, neither of these options were right. 

Mycroft Holmes abhorred James Moriarty simply because now, his brother wasn't relying on him for intelligent company anymore… 

As if Sherlock had ever went to Mycroft after the other had started ignoring all of his letters while he was at Hogwarts. 

\-----------

"I know it was you. " was the only thing Mycroft said to Jim when he came to pick Sherlock up at the train station and bring him to the estate "I know it was you and if you ever give me a reason to, I will 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺 you. "

The young boy simply looked at him with innocent black eyes, one second, two, and then grinned brightly. 

"I don't doubt that, and I eagerly anticipate that day. " Jim chirped, before turning on his heels dramatically. 

He only turned back to blow Sherlock a kiss, and then he disappeared among the crowd, followed by kaleidoscope mirth and green loathing. 

\----------

Jim didn't go back to the orphanage this summer, nor did he visit the Holmes estate, he seemingly disappeared from the face of Earth and Sherlock would have thought him dead if it wasn't for the regular letters brought by a large crow with intelligent eyes. 

The words laid on the precious parchment were strange, seemingly chosen off-handedly, but Sherlock read between the lines, saw the meaning laced within the sentences, and he understood. 

"I just discovered I had a living uncle willing to take me in-" 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘝𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

"-he will take care of me from now on, and I'm really excited !" 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥.

"Since I just moved in, I won't be able to visit you, but I'll see you at Hogwarts in September!" 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘱𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘭'𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦.

"Happy birthday by the way. "

Ha. 

Happy birthday indeed. 

\-----------

Sherlock Holmes was born as the seven month ended, right before the clock struck midnight, from two pureblood parents, and apparently, that was going to define the rest of his life. 

The child of the prophecy, the chosen one the one with the power the dark Lord knew not… 

What a load of bullshit. 

Even Dumbledore knew it, and had known it for years, known it as much as he knew the Earth went around the sun, simply because one couldn't believe in the prophecy and in Sherlock Holmes being the chosen one at the same time, simply because it didn't 𝘧𝘪𝘵.

The most problematic point was his parents. 

The Holmes were neutral during the whole war and the wars that preceded this one, they had been neutral for as long as the family had existed, they had simply stepped away eons ago and they had never stepped back in. 

You could say that defying meant a lot of things, maybe studying a muggle subject, like Sherlock's mother had, was defying Voldemort and his ideals, maybe staying neutral was a form of defiance, maybe Lord Holmes had one day met Tom Riddle before his rise and bumped into him without apologising, maybe maybe 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦.

It was all hypothetical. 

Albus Dumbledore knew that the chosen one couldn't be Sherlock Holmes, but then who? Voldemort had went somewhere that Halloween night, and whatever had happened had made him disappear for the next ten years. 

There was only one boy born the same day, at the exact same moment, but he didn't even want to consider it. 

It had to be Sherlock, no matter how incongruous it seemed, no matter how some parts just made no sense. 

It 𝘩𝘢𝘥 to. 

After all, Albus Dumbledore didn't doubt for one second that the wizarding world would have another Dark Lord on its hands, and that this one would win, if James Moriarty was the one to kill Lord Voldemort. 

\-----------

Their second year started quietly, Jim reappeared as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't vanished for the whole summer, with carefully styled hair, expensive clothes and brand new shoes. 

Sherlock was sure that if Voldemort could have covered his protege with jewelry, intertwined diamonds with his dark locks and simply kept him in his manor, away from Hogwarts and Dumbledore, away from the whole world, he would have done so without a second thought. 

_It was funny wasn't it, how one got so obsessed with James Moriarty that everything else stopped mattering, not that Sherlock was about to judge the Dark Lord though, he would have put Jim in a golden cage himself if he hadn't known the other would just rip out his own heart and eat it with a tender smile_

They barely talked during the whole train ride and they just fell back into their little routine, their behaviours fitting and matching until they were inseparable. 

Strangely, that didn't stop Carl Powers, pureblood Slytherin, from bullying Jim. 

Usually, people tended to shy away from the duo, once Sherlock made it known that he wasn't interested in being 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴, but Carl hadn't even tried, Carl had taken one look at James Moriarty, seen the poor orphan - 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘝𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 - seen the mudblood stealing good wizards' magic and had instantly chosen him as a target. 

_Idiot_. 

He completely ignored Sherlock, he would come with his cronies and try to curse Jim, hurl insults had him when their spells didn't hit as if the words might attain him when the magic had not. 

Jim didn't even care. 

He didn't look up from the black diary he had started carrying around, didn't answer or even curse them back, he just weaved between them, stepped aside smoothly and didn't move from his place at Sherlock's side. 

Jim didn't even care, until they 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 him. 

"What's that? Your diary? " Carl violently ripped the black book out of the smaller's hands, and really, how had that boy managed to end up in Slytherin? Salazar must be rolling in his grave. 

Sherlock thought his friend would act like he always did, glance coldly and elegantly twirl his wand. 

He did not. 

Eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred, Jim held out held out his hand. 

"Give it back. "

Carl Powers laughed and Sherlock knew the boy was going to die, knew weeks before his dead body was found in the Great Lake. 

"I don't think I will. "

The Slytherin shoved the diary in his bag and walked away with a superior smile. 

Had he stayed a second longer, had he turned back at that precise instant, he would have seen James Moriarty smirk darkly. 

Had he looked a moment later, he would have seen Sherlock Holmes hold out his hand with the same smirk on his face, seen the two boys walk the other way with their fingers intertwined. 

\-----------

Voldemort wasn't the one to give the diary to his pupil, truth be told, he would have probably skinned whoever had dropped it into Jim's cauldron in the train station if he had known, but he hadn't and that was probably for the best. 

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

_I am Lord Voldemort._

Jim laughed when he saw the anagram, giggled like some kind of mischievous spirit, like the faerie's child he probably was, and traced the letters over and over again with his fingers. 

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. " he said quietly, reverently, in the same voice he usually said Sherlock's name. 

Jim wrote in the notebook, easily conversed for hours to an end, spun a pretty web and waited for the midnight sky butterfly. 

In the end, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure who got caught, what he knew was that Jim's spidery fingers had closed around his own heart and that he had yet to let go. 

"Isn't that enough? " 𝘐𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘝𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩? 

Jim grinned, adjusted his geometrical web. 

"I want his soul. " he said, impossible smile slicing his face. 

'𝘈𝘴 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. ' he meant, and Sherlock would have given his heart away had he asked out loud. 

\-----------

Carl Powers died after writing too long in an innocuous looking black diary, he went for a swim in the middle of the night, put his head underwater and never took it out. 

"𝘈𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵. " Dumbledore said while looking at the Ravenclaw table, and Jim remembered the taste of ink on Tom Riddle's lips, the way his hand had curled around his throat like his words had before, how his alabaster skin had looked almost translucent in the moonlight. 

_"He's pretty, a real angel, almost as pretty as you… Such a shame that he doesn't have your eyes. " Jim had said when he had come back from his nightly escapade, and Sherlock had wondered what would have happened if Voldemort had been the one possessing the kaleidoscope orbs._

In the great Hall, Dumbledore looked right at them, as if trying to stare into their souls, and Sherlock's fingers found Jim's under the table. 

\-----------

They parted ways at the train station, and once again, Jim disappeared, weaved between families, and probably took Voldemort's hand before being apparated away. 

The letters kept coming during the summer, just like they had the previous year, and this time Sherlock didn't even have to focus to understand what the other meant. 

"Did you know that my uncle had a twin brother? They had an almost fusional relation but he died just before summer started." 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘰𝘮 𝘙𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺.

"I think he's starting to warm up to me, he was very happy with my results in school and he congratulated me many times. " 𝘝𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

"Happy birthday"

'𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰. ' Sherlock simply wrote in response. 

\-----------

James Moriarty was born as the seven month ended, right before the clock struck midnight, from two muggle parents, and apparently, that was going to define the rest of his life.

Even if Sherlock and he were born at the exact same moment, only one had been considered fitting when I came to the prophecy… 

How could two muggles defy the Dark Lord after all? 

His mother was the only daughter of one Billy Stubbs, ex-bully, her existence the proof that Tom Riddle' vengeance hadn't stopped him from living happily. 

Her very life was in itself, a sign of defiance against him, as long as she lived, it meant that one could cross Lord Voldemort without suffering the consequences. 

Now, had she adopted a few cats and ended her life like this, that wouldn't have mattered, but she didn't. 

She met one James Moriarty, married him and gave birth to a healthy baby. 

To a wizard. 

The precious magic Tom Riddle loved so much, that power that had separated him from the plebs, now running in the veins of his bully's grandson? 

The two muggles could have flipped him off and that would have been the same thing. 

Still, 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭, those had only been two instances, the prophecy hadn't fit and Lord Voldemort had been ready to apparate to the Holmes' estate-

Then someone had spoken his name, his true name, _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ , and he had seen red. 

That stupid name had become a taboo as soon as he had been powerful enough to cast the spell, even before Voldemort became one, and where the latter was used to find rebellion, the former told him who 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸.

That Halloween night, Billy Stubbs' daughter, James Moriarty's wife and Jim's mother, had been remembering something her father had told her, something about a freaky child with too intelligent eyes and a wicked mind, something about-

"I think he had a weird name like Tom Marvolo Riddle or something? Da didn't like to talk about it, but that sounded so weird that I couldn't quite forget it. "

_She should have._

Lord Voldemort had been planning on killing Sherlock Holmes this night, but surely a small detour to destroy whoever had said his name wouldn't hurt… 

He had grasped the magic tightly, yanked the spellwork and apparated away. 

Death had come easily to his wand, it always did in the end, sometimes he almost didn't have to speak the words for the green light to start gleaming at the tip of his wand, he would just smile thinly, amused by the way his victims uselessly tried to escape their fate, and the magic would jump to obey his command. 

Killing muggles was awfully easy and quick though, they hadn't even had the time to react to his sudden appearance before they were lying on the tiled floor of the kitchen, gaping mouth and empty eyes. 

He should have left after that, there was nothing left for him in the rubbles of that suburbs home, there was nothing to take, nothing to destroy-

Yet he had continued to walk through the now empty halls, called by something he couldn't quite pinpoint, the whiff of magic hanging in the air, the underlying darkness laced within the walls of the house… 

And then there had been a baby in a cradle, with black, black eyes, bottomless pits of nothingness staring right into his soul. 

"Avada Kedavra. " Lord Voldemort uttered, the two words rolling off his tongue almost without his consent, almost without his notice. 

_He was sure he saw Death grin from behind the boy before his body was torn to shreds._

\----------

There was a scar on James Moriarty's forehead, a small bolt which seemed to randomly redden and fade, he would put his hair on top of it and forget it even existed. 

There was a scar on James Moriarty's forehead but there was also one on his mind, on his very soul, the perfect grip for Death to hold on to, and for this one, no amount of hair would conceal its existence 

\----------

Sirius Black escaped Azkaban during the summer, and the ministry spent most of the following year panicking over the man's disappearance. 

"It's not one of his. " Jim said idly and Sherlock nodded. 

It wasn't like they were involved anyway. 

\----------

They didn't exchange letters during the summer of their third year, but Jim came back, like he always did and always would, having gained a few inches during the summer. 

He was still smaller than Sherlock, he still fit perfectly into his arms, but he was slowly transitioning from a boy to a teen, losing what had made him look like a starved orphan until there was only the picture perfect pureblood child in his stead. 

He still looked so soft though, but he was sharp in Sherlock's embrace, bones digging into his flesh, it was strange really, how everything that made Jim seemed so innocuous and yet was so pointed, so cutting, from his appearance to his words. 

Wearing sharp suits and sleek robes, he sliced a striking figure through the fabric of reality, slashed his smile in the universe to taste forever on his lips, catching eyes in Hogwarts like a diamond surrounded by plain rocks. 

Yes, he stood out, stood aside, and Sherlock always joined him, simply because he needed the thrill of the rush, the proverbial knife against his throat. 

Maybe that was why Jim went to Voldemort, or more exactly why Voldemort went to Jim, tying himself to the teen. 

He didn't need to do that, even if he had been asked for guidance in exchange of the philosopher's stone, he had no need to take his pupil around the world to show him magical places, no need to give him clothes and trinkets like that, no need to 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 him. 

"I can be myself with him. " Jim purred one day, out of the blue, words rolling of his tongue and dispersing into the frigid air of the astronomy tower. 

_T_ _hey had started going there together at some point, they would huddle underneath the invisibility cloak until they were on the rooftop and then they would quietly watch the stars, protected by a warming charm._

_It was their place, their little secret, Jim looked so peaceful when the only light came from the sky, when he was so engrossed by the cosmos that he forgot himself and the rest of the world._

Sherlock looked at him, really looked at him, eyes focused with something that was more curiosity than jealousy, more interest than possessiveness. 

Jim was Sherlock's as much as Sherlock was Jim's, there really was nothing to be jealous of. 

'𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮. ' he had said, and Sherlock simply arched an eyebrow. 

"Are you? "

_'Do you look into his eyes and lose yourself into his mind? Do you ramble about the stars, about mathematics and the patterns drowning you? Do you speak of death with a smile, of murder with a loving whisper? '_

Jim chuckled, shook his head and kissed him, pressed their lips together and ate the question away underneath the cosmos. 

\------------

There was a tournament held between Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, Mycroft Holmes was here as the ministry's liaison, the goblet of fire spit out Sherlock Holmes' name and the whole incident was over before it could really begin. 

Of course, Dumbledore tried to make it look like the contract would take his magic away if he didn't participate, but one couldn't just spew nonsense about magic in front of an unspeakable, much less one as smart as the older Holmes. 

Sherlock officially forfeited, and didn't think about the useless tournament ever again. 

\------------

Jim had gotten an old, heavy locket during the summer, Slytherin's heirloom found by Narcissa Malfoy in the ancestral home of the Blacks and hung around a mudblood's neck. 

Sherlock caught the other's hissed whispers more than once, saw the carved snake move and the locket open, saw it disappear the last day of the tournament. 

_The sorting hat would be mad if he saw Jim like this, speaking the snake's tongue to one of the founders' heirloom, yer insisting to be put in Ravenclaw._

The Beauxbatons girl died in the middle of the maze, she was unable to send sparks, and so no one came to save her. 

The Beauxbatons girl died and Lord Voldemort regained one part of his soul. 

\------------

Dolores Umbridge obtained control of Hogwarts for their fifth year, or more exactly, it was given to her by the rotten part of the ministry, and so Voldemort himself. 

The woman hated muggleborns, that much was obvious, but in front of one James Moriarty? 

Her voice turned sickeningly sweet, suddenly she was the perfect sycophant and blood status no longer mattered 

Sherlock simply found her disgusting, Jim treated her like one treated a horrible gift someone gave you at Christmas in front of everyone… 

Because it 𝘸𝘢𝘴 a gift in the end. 

Voldemort gifted Hogwarts to Jim on silver platter, a marionette leader wearing a golden crown, invisible threads linking the two, but Sherlock wouldn't have been able to tell who was the puppet and who was the puppeteer-

Jim smirked, and suddenly, he knew. 

\------------

They found a tiara in the Room of Requirements. 

Sherlock was the one who stumbled upon it, but Jim was the one who understood what it really was, not just Ravenclaw's possession, but Voldemort's as well...

_He truly looked like a King, didn't he?_

It should have looked ridiculous, that pretty tiara balanced on his dark hair like a crown, the shimmering fabric of the invisibility cloak resting around his shoulders, his wand held high more like a scepter than anything else. 

Jim looked regal, and at the same time, he wasn't even there anymore, he was deep inside his mind, conversing with the part of Tom Riddle's soul stuck inside that mock crown. 

Sherlock couldn't help but wonder whether or not Lord Voldemort really had access to James Moriarty's mind as well, if he could see the galaxies stretching across the confines of his psyche, the stars, each at their exact locations, the constellations, gleaming softly… And most importantly the black hole slowly eating it all away. 

\------------

In the end, a convenient muggle died and Jim coaxed another piece of Voldemort's soul out of its shell. 

\------------

The Dark Lord bought the vanishing cabinet linked with the one in Hogwarts, and afterwards, Jim disappeared to join his side every night, leaving Sherlock behind in their shared room, only coming back in the morning with tousled hair and reddened lips. 

\------------

Sherlock loathed Jim almost as much as he loved him. 

He was easy to hate in the end, he coated his words and his persona in honey for his lover, and afterwards, there was only poison, lethal and acidic left for Sherlock. 

Yes, really, Sherlock abhorred Jim with all his being but that didn't stop him from needing him, from feeling like his soul would never be complete without him, from waiting every night for the other to come back and curl with him in his bed. 

That was why he came with him when Jim broke into the Ministry to find the prophecy, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 prophecy. 

𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘴, it was labeled, and Jim laughed himself silly as he shattered the misty orb on the tiled floor. 

\-------------

Voldemort gave Jim his ring during the summer of their sixth year, his family ring after his family locket, and this time he reabsorbed the soul piece before leaving it with his lover. 

It didn't fit well on his hand, the black stone hadn't been cut accordingly to the ring and it ended up simply looking quite strange when the Ravenclaw wore it on his finger. 

In the end, he tied it to a gold chain and kept it on his person, always, the etched symbol shining dimly beneath his robes. 

"He made me swear on my life that I would never turn my magic against him. " Jim said off-handedly, watching a shooting star dash across the sky. 

Sherlock merely held him tighter, closer, and the other melted into the embrace, listening to him breath until his soft voice echoed in the night again. 

"He wants to kill you, you know? He still believe in that stupid prophecy. "

But maybe, in the end, even Jim did too. 

\-------------

It was around that time that James Moriarty got interested with fairytales-

No, that was a lie. 

James Moriarty had always been fond of the pretty stories, of the dramatics and carefully chosen words, he just hadn't know wizards had their own tales, their own fantaisies differing from the muggle ones. 

One in particular had seemed to catch his attention, and Sherlock had seen the other trace the words on the familiar pages more time than he could remember, trace that weird symbol mirrored on the ring tied around his neck. 

_The tale of the three brothers._

Sherlock wasn't sure whether Jim was more interested by Death or the possibility to master it. 

\-------------

At the end of their sixth year, they sneaked out in the middle of the night, huddled beneath the invisibility cloak until they were out of the wards, and apparated away. 

Making a portkey wasn't exactly hard once the calculations were made, illegally travelling to another country needed a significant amount of magic, but nothing they couldn't muster, and so they disappeared into the night, breathed in in England and exhaled in front of Nurmengard. 

Afterwards, entering the prison was child's play. 

Of course, it was highly secure, but it was nothing their combined magic and the invisibility cloak couldn't deflect. 

They walked through the empty hallways, observing cold stones and empty cells, until they were here, in front of him. 

_Gellert Grindelwald._

The invisibility cloak rested like mantle around Jim's shoulders, silvery fabric shimmering into view. 

"Hello. " Sherlock's tenor echoed in the frigid air, and the former Dark Lord turned to face them, his emaciated face marked by age and imprisonment. 

_Sometimes, Sherlock couldn't but wonder what would happen if he acted like Dumbledore, if he turned against his love and fought to destroy everything they had stood for._

_Would he be able to fight him ? And if he somehow won, if he took him by surprise and caught him, would he be able to lock him away like that?_

_No, of course not, and even if he allied himself with Voldemort to hide Jim away, Sherlock just knew the other too much, knew his mind and the way boredom ate it away, how the infinite patterns of life sometimes became too much and even a completely empty room couldn't calm him down..._

_But most importantly, he knew that the other would never allow Sherlock to leave him in a cell and walk away, he would somehow find a way to turn his very magic against himself and stop his heart into his chest, the ghost haunting his lover until the day he ultimately passed away._

Grindelwald observed them for a second, saw the cloak around Jim's shoulders, the ring at his finger, the way his hand seemed practically stitched to Sherlock's. 

"Oh. " he breathed out, wide eyes and broken dreams. "You're going to do it aren't you? You're going to master Death."

_It must be hard to see someone else succeed where you had failed..._

Jim grinned, empty socket and too white bones, bottomless abyss and eerie tenderness. His fingers were cold and the certainty lacing his voice was somehow icier 

"No, we're going to be Death." He purred, and Grindelwald understood what that meant. 

Albus Dumbledore would have to die. 

\-------------

In the end, it was Sherlock who killed Dumbledore. 

Jim had been the one to disarm him during the fight, the death stick flying out of the old man's hands to join his new master, fitting in the youthful hands in a way that seemed to make the older sick. 

Sherlock had simply stood, slightly to the side, slightly away, watching the whole thing unfurl, until it was his time to act. 

"We talked to your lover. " Jim said, almost sweetly, and Sherlock saw Dumbledore's eyes widen before hardening "Don't worry, you won't be alone on the other side for very long. "

Jim was gloating, crowing, he was the only one of the duo who took pleasure in smashing his enemies lower than dirt when he beat them, he liked them to taste defeat, to 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 it in their bones. 

Sherlock didn't, bringing down people didn't feel particularly bad in itself, but neither did it feel good. 

In the end, it didn't really matter, Jim gloated enough for the two of them, and once their opponents were beaten, he could look down on them as much as he wanted. 

Dumbledore wasn't giving up though, not now and not ever, not to James Moriarty at least. 

Maybe if it had been a boy he had thought redeemable, like Malfoy or some Death Eaters' children, maybe if he had thought his death could bring his killer to the 'right side', then he would have laid down and died, but Jim? 

Jim was everything he loathed in himself and more, Voldemort's lover like he had been Grindelwald's, brilliant, more than the old man himself even, and so, so perfectly 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬.

Albus Dumbledore had noticed years ago that James Moriarty was a black hole, he had looked into his eyes and seen them swallow the light, he had perceived the similarities between Jim and Grindelwald, Jim and himself, yet he had been unable to understand just what it meant. 

Maybe the old man thought history was bound to repeat itself, and so he replaced characters from his own narrative with people from the present even if they didn't fit, sewed his own thoughts into his fantasies. 

Jim wasn't Grindelwald though, he didn't ensnare Sherlock with his charm, simply because Sherlock had already been seduced in the train, he wasn't Dumbledore either, hopelessly falling for the Dark Lord and the pretty dreams he represented, if Jim was falling then so was Voldemort and only the latter would land. 

No, history wasn't repeating itself, the old man wasn't going to let himself die easily, and in the end, it was Sherlock who killed Dumbledore. 

It was easy, really, the ex-headmaster was so focused on Jim, so focused on the lethal curse slowly gathering into his empty hands, the magic casting sickly green shadows on the wrinkled fingers, that he did not see Sherlock's wand pointing at him, nor did he notice the deadly words rolling off his tongue. 

"Avada Kedavra. " he simply uttered, like one might say 'Merry Christmas' or 'See you next week', and Albus Dumbledore died, fell off the tower and 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘸.

Afterwards, Jim left shuddering kisses on Sherlock's fingers, tracing a trail of fire along the arm which had delivered the death sentence, higher and higher until their lips were pressed together. 

"You're so perfect, so so so perfect, 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬."

And the way his name rolled off the other's tongue, reverent and worshipful… 

Voldemort had killed for Jim before, but where was the novelty in that? It had no significance, not the one the man had surely wanted to give at least, simply because killing had already been in Tom Riddle's agenda long before Jim showed up. 

Sherlock was different though, Sherlock had never killed anyone, not particularly because his morals stopped him but simply because he was too detached from most things to feel the need to do so… And he had killed, for Jim, murdered a man in cold blood, taken his life with two words. 

…

Jim held the wand like a scepter, the cloak comfortably resting on his shoulder, the ring still in his place, against his beating heart. 

Death grinned at him and Sherlock smiled back. 

\-------------

  
  


They left together, abandoned Hogwarts , abandoned England and travelled the world. 

Sherlock wasn't sure what Jim had told to Voldemort, or what he was telling him every time he apparated to his Manor, but he couldn't bring himself to really care. 

Mycroft was trying to contact him, or to trace him more exactly, but as smart as he was, Jim and Sherlock were a duo, and two minds worked better than one. 

They disappeared, and life felt right once more. 

  
  


\--------------

  
  


Mycroft had always hated Jim, Sherlock had known his brother would always hate his lover as soon as they had met, so what happened next really wasn't surprising in any way. 

He wasn't entirely certain how the other got caught, whether he was captured during one of his lover's raid or if he simply sauntered into the ministry, broke in Mycroft's office and sprawled on his desk. 

_It was probably the latter, Jim certainly would have preferred the drama_. 

He reappeared two months later, and Sherlock would have liked to say that the darkness in his eyes got more pronounced, that whatever Mycroft had done had shattered the other and left him in shambles, that the insanity, that black hole swallowing his genius mind, had entirely been caused by the torture. 

He would have liked to say that but it would have been a lie to even imply it. 

Jim had always been like that, always slightly unstable, slightly unhinged, he had danced on the edges of the known world, looked at the abyss below his sauntering feet and simply continued, the doloris, the curses, and whatever else Mycroft had tried never changed anything. 

In the end, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why the other even let himself get caught, and Voldemort mustn't have known either from the way his attacks got more violent afterwards. 

"It was for you, always for you. " Jim whispered before the patterns got too loud again, before his brain betrayed him once more, before he was torn away by the black hole of his mind. 

Sherlock held the shuddering half of his soul, looked into his eyes and plunged into his mind. 

Gone were the stars, and everywhere, as far as he could see, the galaxies had been replaced with inky blackness. 

\--------------

  
  


Jim was already waiting when Sherlock arrived, as was Voldemort, the former was wearing a suit with a coat, his hair slicked back to reveal that strange bolt scar, and he was humming softly to himself, some muggle song he must have heard somewhere, unbothered by the frigid air. 

_This was the end, wasn't it?_

They were standing in the astronomy tower, where they had spent so many nights, Jim had apparated, apparently to join his lover for the final battle of Hogwarts, but he had simply weaved between the dying wizards and disappeared in the crowd, whispering into Voldemort's ear to 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

Sherlock had followed, simply because following was what he always did when it came to Jim, people had noticed him, tried to stop him, but he has stopped them with a wave of his hand. 

"Staying alive, so boring isn't it? "

Voldemort froze, crimson eyes betraying none of his confusion yet showing more than Sherlock needed. 

The Dark Lord had no idea what his lover was doing, he had come to kill Sherlock and Sherlock had come because Jim had called, but neither knew what was going to happen. 

"Almost as boring as the two of you with your dumb prophecy, why in hell are you living through someone else's words? Why are you letting them dictate your life? "

Sherlock did not, simply because the prophecy didn't speak about him, and even if it had, he would have probably ignored it, but Voldemort? Didn't he know what a self-fulfilling prophecy was? 

Had he never attacked Jim that night, he wouldn't have etched that scar into his forehead, wouldn't have created his own equal. 

But he has though, he had and now destiny was waiting for its due. 

_Even Death had to bow before Fate in the end._

"You know I need to kill him. " Voldemort said softly, as if he was still speaking to the child Jim had never been. 

Sherlock didn't talk, he just stood, slightly away, slightly to the side, he stood and he watched the prophecy unfold. 

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ..._

"Who did you attack that night? You know you never went to the Holmes, you know you never attacked Sherlock Holmes, you know exactly where you were, so why-" 

_Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ..._

The Dark Lord froze once more, realisation slowly filling his aristocratic face, horror flashing inside his crimson eyes. 

_And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,_

The scar on Jim's forehead stood out on the pale expanse of skin, the angry red bolt contrasting with his dark hair. 

_…but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not..._

Dumbledore had probably been right in a way, not because love had stopped the killing curse that first time, that was absolutely ludicrous and they would probably never know what had really happened, but maybe it was, in fact, the power Voldemort knew not. 

Jim had entranced him, made him fall for his him and tied silky strands, invisible threads, until the Dark Lord had been completely his. 

_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...”_

…

_This was the end, wasn't it?_

Jim grinned, walked towards Voldemort, close, closer, until they were mere breathes away. 

"You understand now, don't you? " 

He was only answered by a silence, but that didn't stop him. 

"Thank you. " 

A trail of kisses along the man's jaw. 

"Bless you. "

One soft, imperceptible, on his ruby lips. 

This felt like a good-bye, a farewell, this felt like forever and a second at the same time.

James Moriarty held out his hand, an invitation to paradise, a promise for hell, and Tom Riddle took it without hesitation, instinctively. 

"As long as I'm alive, your soul will be incomplete, you will be tied to this world, immortal for all eternity…" He blinked once, twice, and when he grinned, Death smirked with him. "Well good luck with that. "

Sherlock wasn't sure what happened next, or maybe he was, but he didn't want to admit that it has happened. 

_This was the end, wasn't it?_

Jim took a gun out of his pocket, put the muzzle in his mouth with his lips still curled up, and lovingly caressed the trigger.

…

…

…

Sherlock didn't even realise he was on his knees until his fingers were desperately trying to put Jim's skull back together, to keep the blood where it should be, to do something, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

And then he froze, rivulets of crimson eternity coating his hands. 

James Moriarty was dead. 

James Moriarty was 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

  
  


\-------------

"So what did his vows mean in the end? " Lord Voldemort asked, and the only thing Sherlock could feel for the powerful wizard was pity. 

Poor man, drinking Jim's poisonous love coated in honey, the sweetness hiding its acidic taste, hiding the fact that it burned the receiver from the inside out, hiding the fact that it would never amount to anything even if it was real. 

And real it was, somehow, Sherlock only loved Jim but it seemed like the other part of the conjoined soul did not have this limitation, and the boy turned man loved, loved, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥, until the world was a barren wasteland. 

James Moriarty loved Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, or whoever he wanted to be, Sherlock didn't doubt that fact for even one second, but that didn't mean he couldn't hurt him, wouldn't hurt him. 

'𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦.' the dark Lord had said, and so Jim did not, because in the end, he never went back on his words. 

The cadaver slowly stood up from behind Lord Voldemort, the hole in his skull closing, the familiar symbol on his ring glowing dimly, he walked, drifted closer, one step, two, and Sherlock did nothing but watch. 

There was nothing to do anyway, simply because Tom Marvolo Riddle already knew. 

A second later, Jim was hugging his lover from behind, bloody lips leaving featherlight kisses along his jaw, his cold, cold breath caressing his cheek. 

'𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯? '

Jim put the muzzle of the gun against Voldemort's temple, and Death's honeyed voice echoed in his ears. 

"Everything. "

The gun went off, a soul shattered and loving hands put it back together, cradled it tenderly before kissing it, agony seeping through the seams, and Sherlock smiled, simply smiled, because now James Moriarty was finally his. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all liked this! Tell me what you thought in the comments~


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